


In Sickness and In Health

by a_splash_of_stucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Illnesses, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnancy Test, Sick Character, Vomiting, pregnancy reveal, puking, taking care of each other, throwing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 08:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12955056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: You're sick - but at least it's for a good reason.





	In Sickness and In Health

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this on a train, sorry if it’s crap (I was sleep-deprived and in a funny mood).

To get out of bed or to stay in bed, that is the question, you muse. It’s a hard decision you have to make.

“Fuckin’ butcherin’ Shakespeare, I’m that delirious,” you grumble, to no one in particular.

You’re curled up on your side underneath a fluffy blanket, despite the fact that it’s almost noon. You haven’t had a shower in—an unreasonably long amount of time, goodness, you don’t even want to  _think_ about how long it’s ben. You’re wearing your rattiest pair of pyjama shorts and an old t-shirt of your husband’s. In short, you look — and feel — like shit.

You’ve been feeling horribly nauseous. The dreaded queasiness has been plaguing you for the past couple of days, lingering in the back of your throat like an itch you can’t get rid of. A sickening feeling is beginning to creep into your mouth; the urge to hurl is present, but not yet imminent. Although, you’re fairly certain that with the way things have been going lately, you’ll be puking your guts out in no time.

The issue here is the fact that your limbs have basically been reduced to wobbly noodles. You don’t think you have it in you to roll over to the edge of the bed and throw up in the conveniently placed bucket, let alone stagger into the bathroom to puke into the toilet. Earlier this morning, you’d tried standing up, intending to go downstairs for some breakfast, only to find yourself swaying on two feet and collapsing onto the bed from sudden dizziness.

You sigh tiredly as you wallow in a pool of self-pity. Being sick fucking  _sucks_.

It is at that moment that you hear the front door of your apartment creaking open. Heavy footsteps come next, thudding into the hallway. Keys jangle as they’re set onto the counter.

“Steve?” you groan.

Your husband materialises in the doorway of the bedroom, a plastic bag in one hand, his jacket in the other.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, eyes going all soft and concerned as he takes in your current situation — buried under the blanket, your hair in a mess and a positively miserable expression on your face.

“It’s real bad, huh, baby?” he asks, draping his jacket over the desk chair as he approaches the bed. Steve crouches down beside you, so that his handsome —  _unfairly handsome_ , Steven why are you like this? — face is level with yours.

“Think m’gonna be sick again,” you mumble.

Steve’s eyebrows quirk up in understanding.

“Need me to carry you?” he asks. You manage to nod your head, even in your weakened state.

Steve straightens up and leans over you to help unwrap the blanket from your body. He gets one arm underneath your knees and the other around your shoulders, holding you in a sure, secure grip, as if you weigh nothing at all. Your husband whisks you into the ensuite and gently deposits you beside the toilet. You manage to muster up enough arm-leg coordination to arrange your body over the bowl as the first tremors roll through you.

There’s not much strength in you, having been up most of the night in this exact same spot, doing basically the exact same thing. You heave an retch weakly, your entire body quaking as you puke out the half-a-slice of toast you’d had for breakfast. All throughout the unglamorous ordeal, Steve stays by your side, one hand rubbing soothing circles over your back, the other brushing your hair away from your face. He murmurs calming words into your ear that get drowned out by the unrelenting roar of your pulse.

When the bout is over, you slump against the wall beside the toilet, bringing your knees to your chest and resting your forehead on top of them. The dizzying sensation is still pulsing behind your temples so you close your eyes and force yourself to take deep breaths through your mouth, in order to steady yourself. You hear Steve standing up and flushing the toilet, before striding out of the bathroom.

He’s back a few seconds later, though, before you even get a chance to call out for him. You feel — rather than see — him sitting down in front of you. The soft crinkling and rustling of plastic tells you the purpose of his short trip to the bedroom. You hear a sharp snapping noise, then feels Steve’s fingers touching the back of your hand.

“Here, baby, drink this,” Steve says softly. You lift your head up and look at him through bleary eyes. Steve’s bringing a bottle to your lips, an encouraging smile on his face. You squint at the contents of the bottle suspiciously; it’s filled with an unnervingly bright orange-coloured liquid.

“S’just an energy drink,” he explains, “To replenish your electrolytes.”

You shrug indifferently, leaning your head forward. At least the thing has a sports top. You take several large sips, savouring the way the chilled liquid soothes the slight burn irritating your throat that comes with puking your guts out. It’s also unbearably sweet, but at least that has the advantage of chasing away the horrible aftertaste of vomit.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a small pink and white box poking out of the plastic bag. As Steve re-caps the bottle and sets it aside, you reach out a hand to inspect the box. What it says on the front makes your heart do uncontrolled leaps.

“Steve?” you breathe.

“Hmm?”

“What is this?” you ask, turning the box in your hand.

A scarlet flush spreads over Steve’s face, spreading from the roots of his hair, to the tips of his ears and even down his neck. He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Um, look, I—I told the lady at the counter your symptoms, to get you some meds, and she was askin’ me questions about what you’ve been doing these past couple’a days, and…and well, she thought it might be worth taking…one,” he finishes lamely, gesturing awkwardly to the box in your hand.

“She thinks I might be pregnant?” you breathe incredulously, looking down at the pregnancy test in your hand in disbelief.

To be fair, this is not a wholly impossible explanation. Lately, you and Steve have been a lot lazier with regards to protection and, now that you think about it, your period might be a little bit late. Then again, your cycle has a tendency to be irregular at awkward times, so who are you to know these things?

“She…well, she said it couldn’t hurt to buy one,” Steve mutters, shifting uncomfortably on his haunches as he sets the energy drink back into the plastic bag. “Look, if you’d rather not—,”

“No, no,” you protest, flapping him away with one hand as you crack the box open with your other. “S’worth a try.”

You break open the seal, then tip out the contents of the box; a pee-on-a-stick test and a small instruction pamphlet. You skin through the pictures, your brows furrowed and your lips caught between your teeth. In your peripheral vision, you can see your husband trying to not let his nerves show.

The process seem simple enough, you muse. Pee on the stick, cap it, then wait three minute before reading the result. Standard. You’ve never taken a pregnancy test before, and you can’t help but feel a little bit excited as to what the result might be.

“D’you want me to…y’know what? I’ll wait outside,” Steve decides, as he pushes himself to his feet. You hold your hands out and shoot him your best puppy-dog look. Steve chuckles, shaking his head in amusement as he grasps your wrists and pulls you up in one smooth movement. Before he lets you go, Steve throws his arms around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

“I love you,” he breathes, pressing a tender kiss to the middle of your forehead. He’s got a dopey grin on his face that he can’t seem to get rid off — but to be fair, you’re pretty sure that you’re not much better. The excitement is making him almost buzz out of his skin.

“Honey, we don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet!” you laugh, playfully wriggling in his grip.

“I know,” he murmurs, finally letting you go. He bends down to pick the plastic bag up again. When he straightens, he flashes you that killer smile, “I still love you, though.”

“Sap,” you tease, sticking your tongue out when Steve makes a wounded face. “Shoo!” you order, prodding him in the shoulder to get him moving, “Let me pee in peace.”

Steve guffaws, eyes crinkling at the corners and hand reaching up to clutch his left pec as he walks backwards out of the bathroom. You giggle as you watch him leave, wondering how on earth you landed yourself this dork. Once he’s gone, you pull down your sleep shorts, take an unnecessarily dramatic breath, then sit on the toilet to take a test whose results could very well change life as you know it.

Being sick makes you something of a drama queen, it seems.

As per the instructions on the pamphlet, once you’ve saturated the tip on your urine, you replace the cap, then set it on the bathroom counter on top of some folded tissue paper — pointedly  _not_ looking at the small window where two pink lines may or may not appear in a few minutes time. You wash your hands, then head into the bedroom, where Steve is waiting.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed wearing a hopeful expression on his face. His thighs are spread apart and his elbows are on his knees.

“Got three minutes to wait,” you announce, your gaze flicking to the digital alarm clock you keep on the bedside table. Steve nods, sitting up straighter and holding his arms out in invitation. You smile brightly, sauntering over and perching yourself in his lap. His strong arms encircle you, pulling you close. Steve rests his chin on top of your head and sighs quietly.

“I’m a little nervous,” he admits, voice low and quiet.

“Me too,” you breathe, your fingers idly tracing the geometric design on the front of his t-shirt.

It’s quite possibly the longest three minutes you’ve ever had to wait out.

(Okay, being sick  _definitely_ makes you more of a drama queen).

Everyone probably says that kind of thing when they’re waiting for something as momentous and potentially life-changing as this, but still. Time is a cruel fiend, slowing itself down when all you want is to  _know right now_. You find your gaze drifting over to the clock more often than not.

That’s doing absolutely nothing to calm the butterflies fluttering like madmen in your stomach. Or maybe, that’s just the nausea acting up again. No, no — definitely nerves.

“‘Kay,” you say, twisting out of Steve’s grip and getting to your feet when the time is — finally — up. “You comin’ with?” you ask, holding a hand out for Steve to take.

He regards it, swallows nervously, then shakes his head. “I’m gonna wait here,” he says resolutely, folding his arms over his muscled chest and tipping his chin up to look at you. “You get to tell me what the results are.”

“Just an excuse for bein’ lazy,” you say under your breath, as you turn to head into the bathroom. Steve snorts indignantly, forcing you to stifle a chuckle — enhanced hearing; of course he caught  that.

The next few seconds pass by in a surreal blur. One moment you’re walking into the bathroom, the next moment you’re staring at the pregnancy test on the counter and seeing two bright pink lines staring back at you.

Your heart stops.

You’re not sure whether the urge to scream or the urge to bawl is stronger — torn in its indecision, your body winds up doing neither, choosing to freeze in shock, instead.

It’s quite possible that for a few seconds, your lungs stop working.  

“Sweetheart?” Steve calls, “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you reply, your mouth finally remembering how to make words come out. Your muscles are acting like they’re paralysed — no matter how hard you command them to move, you’re stuck in the same spot.

You’ve no idea how much time passes, but it’s clearly long enough to make Steve concerned. He strides into the room, all purposeful and determined, though you can see the hesitation and apprehension in his eyes. Steve comes up behind you, hands tentatively resting on your waist.

“Baby?” he asks softly, nose brushing along the column of your neck.

“H-hey, honey,” you choke out, voice becoming hoarse tears unexpectedly bubble to the surface. “You ready to follow me into the jaws of parenthood?”

Steve inhales sharply. His grip on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly. An unbearably long silence passes. “You’re serious?” he breathes, the shock evident in his tone.

“Uh-huh,” you reply, turning in his arms so that the two of you are face to face. Steve’s expression is a curious mixture of shock, fear and excitement. He breaks out into a huge grin when his eyes lock onto yours.

“You’re pregnant?” he asks softly, one hand coming to rest on your belly.

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice breathless as a fat tear rolls down your face. “We’re pregnant, honey. You’re gonna be a  _dad_. You’re gonna be a daddy!”

A pause, then, “Already am,” Steve jokes, one eyebrow quirking up smugly. You roll your eyes, about to make some witty retort, but Steve’s already pulling you closer, the grin on his face threatening to outshine the sun.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Holy shit, we’re gonna be parents!” he cries exultantly, picking you up and spinning you around in a circle. You squeal, playfully thrashing in his grip until he sets you down on your feet again.

“We’re gonna be parents, sweetheart,” Steve repeats, his hands travelling up and down your body as if he still hasn’t wrapped his head around the thought. “Oh, you’re gonna get all round and—,” Steve cuts himself off, turning away as a slight flush blooms over the apples of his cheeks.

You know what that means. When your husband gets embarrassed, his face turns as red as a tomato, flushing all over. When he gets  _aroused_ however, that’s when he starts looking all bashful and shy like this.

“And what, Stevie?” you tease, poking him in the bicep. “Round and what?”

“Nothin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.

“Bullshit, Rogers,” you say, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards you, bringing Steve down to your eye-level, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“I—um. I just realised that you’re gonna look real round when you’re pregnant,” Steve says, trying valiantly to remain calm.

You blink slowly, confused. “That’s…that’s the point, honey.”

“And I just realised how sexy that’s gonna be,” he blurts, eyes wide and cheeks flaming red.

Your expression turns coy as you bat your lashes seductively. “Oooooh, Steven, I didn’t know you had a pregnancy kink,” you purr, looping your arms around his neck and leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Neither did I,” Steve admits gruffly, his hands dropping down to cup your ass. “Kinda lookin’ forward to explorin’ that a bit, though,” he whispers, voice dropping an octave lower, turning all husky and rough the way you love.

You can’t really focus on that right now, however.

“Hold up, babe,” you gasp, hurriedly pushing away from him, twisting and dropping to your knees in front of the toilet again as the urge to hurl comes rushing back at full force.

“Oh—okay, let me—,” Steve mutters, crouching down by your side to support you. You retch violently, forcing some a meagre dribble of liquid out of your system.

“Just think, honey!” Steve chirps, as he pets your hair affectionately, “At least there’s a purpose to all this!”

“Oh, fuck you,” you groan, as another shuddering heave wracks through your system.

“You did,” Steve says, tone solemn. “That’s how you got pregnant in the first place.”

You bark out a laugh. “You’re gonna be one of those dads with the worse dad jokes ever,” you grumble, your voice coming out sounding much fonder than you want it to.

“And you’re gonna love me for it,” Steve whispers contritely.

He’s right.

You probably will.

**Author's Note:**

> Share this work on [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/168337832955/in-sickness-and-in-health/)


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